


Themis

by thatclutzsarahh



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Abstract, Aftermath, Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Angst, Bederick - Freeform, Blood and Violence, Cannibalism, Chilton Being an Asshole, Dark, Dark Bedelia, Dark Character, Death, Dom Chilton, Explicit Language, Extended Metaphors, F/M, Food Metaphors, Gore, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Head Injury, Horror, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mild Gore, Mistress, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Permanent Injury, Psychological Torture, Sexual Content, Sexual Metaphors, Smut, Spoilers, Torture, dub con, linguistic play, metaphorical gore, personality clash, season 3 and beyond
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-07-02
Updated: 2015-07-04
Packaged: 2018-04-07 07:18:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4254357
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thatclutzsarahh/pseuds/thatclutzsarahh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There she sat, a statue goddess of brilliant Roman marble, centuries old. Her complexion is far smoother than anything he has ever seen, the most perfect specimen to have and claim as his own. She is the only living victim of the gleeful descendent of Doctor Hannibal Lecter, the only willing participant-sitting there in his office under the guise of trickery and foul manners. Frederick had caged Hannibal's canary and clipped the wings-iron clad to the window sill in a perfect display of surviving prowess. Underestimation was in his nature-he was so unassuming of women, to a great fault. Bedelia was no canary of the Ripper, she was a muse, an idol, the mistress and appeaser-judge and executioner.</p>
<p> Whatever she would get herself into, she would navigate herself out.</p>
<p>Frederick Chilton was no concern of hers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Socotra

**Author's Note:**

> I'm new to fanfic realm of Hannibal, but I was in the middle of a save hannibal rewatch when I was struck with the bug of writing. And not just writing a common pair, but to write the most, grotesque, linguistically explicit, obscene rare pairing that I could possibly imagine. I was sitting there going what if-
> 
> Bedelia and Chilton?
> 
> I want to make it abundantly clear there is NO fluff to be had of this. No conventional fluff I will say. Keeping in fashion with the intelligent show, this fic is a rather dark style romance, a slow moving abstract tale. One may even dare to say AU. (oh gosh!) 
> 
> This is the first fic of mine to be introduced to the Hannibal fandom, the first fic that's struck me to write fic (I usually just rp) in months, and it will take some time to take shape. I ask that you be patient with me! All the characters and relationships tagged will be introduced in time.
> 
> But ultimately this is a Bedelia/Chilton "romance" story, though like usual, it revolves around Hannibal Lecter (the show is called Hannibal for a reason, duh) so-without more stalling, here is chapter one of Who-knows-how-many. 
> 
> Enjoy! 
> 
> -Sarahh <3

He circles around her, like a great vulture, hunting down on the remains of the woman below him, the greatest prize he could have seated in his hospital (voluntarily of course) with great long locks like golden blades that hide her true nature. Though features are long and greek-like, the goddess is not yet revealing the power she beholds beneath her stone like pores, scaled tightly together to hide inside the great powerful rays that are bound beneath her exterior. 

 

Chilton feels profoundly lucky to have such a unique vision in his company. Though very wealthy and amicably considered as charming, Frederick Chilton does not often find himself in the company of women like her. He has relatively simple tastes, almost vulgar really, and though his often judges the bed mate by the form of her supple body, he could see himself amongst the sheets with this….dangerous, yet wondrous beauty. She is perched, so lovely, in velveteen chairs that it’s like Hannibal dropped her from the sky as a gift herself, after all, psychiatrists like themselves do have to stick together. 

 

But there is an overwhelming sense that this Roman goddess is in a class of her own, far outside the realms of such an ornery men like Chilton himself. With glassy eyes the woman studies him, finally dressed in nice but flashy clothing, a diamond here, silver there-each flash shows off a display of great wealth, a display of absence of power. Bedelia  _is_  power, she is grace and glory and all of those things one would pray about in church, a worshipped woman like the many books relay about her. There is nothing about her that screams ordinary, and he pales in comparison next to her.

 

While he has heard of her, she has not much heard of him. Only through her narrow scope of a lens on Hannibal has she seen him, and the opinion she has gathered is warped by manipulation, a judgement far too collapsed upon itself to be worthy of anything new. So instead she studies the room with quiet glances, her facial features are twisted like the great vines of trees, barely visible through the dense forest, hiding her nature, the beast within. Not that she will ever admit openly there is such a beast within her-the more damsel she can play, the better this meeting may go for her.

 

Once thoroughly stalked around the room, eyes sweeping back and forth from her frame and her clothes to the ornate hospital office desk before him-he sweeps rather unceremoniously into the seat before her. It is the first time the pair is eye to eye and she wears nothing but a great look of contentment for him. the power dynamic is clear, and Chilton will have an uphill battle for the upper hand in the situation-something he has never openly been good at gaining. 

 

“Doctor Bedelia Du Maurier-” his voice lilts out, with a familiar cadence and song. He hasn’t quite gotten used to the facial prosthetic that holds up that side of his face, nor do the contacts do much to mask how he cannot see with that eye. He appears so normal, and were it another man, or patient, his foundation is matched so perfectly one would not be able to tell he’s got make up one. Still, Frederick smiles. “You look lovely. I have to say I haven’t heard _anything_  about you.”

 

His words have bite to them, but if they sting she doesn’t show it, only letting the teeth sink into her armor and break away on the steel-pounded down for centuries until it is thin, dull and transparent…suitable armor for a lady as herself. There isn’t a thing in the world that can peel back that cool demeanor, if anything, words only add to it.

 

“Psychiatric circles,” Bedelia begins slowly, “Grow larger every day. It is not unheard of for some of us to…slip through the cracks.” 

 

Fredrick smiles.

 

“Fair enough, I suppose. Though I rather curious as to why you’d think you could slip through the cracks. You were, or are, after all, the most discussed topic around. Hannibal Lecter’s psychiatrist, what an unusual title to hold. Tell me, Doctor Du Maurier, how is Italy this time of year?”

 

The accusation catches her off guard, though it is not particularly unfounded. Still, the composed woman does not let on to what she knows, knew or maintains as secrets for the grotesque man left on the shores of Europe so long ago. 

 

“The fishermen are heading out to sea…there is a-demand for tuna now that it has swam to harbor. Though I suspect you do not do much of eating fish.”

 

It was a silent jab at the facts that Hannibal once told her-his gutting and resassembly sounds like a remarkably difficult feat. Bedelia sees him standing with assistance, a scar left to smile at whomever is caught in his cage, trapped like a shark, waiting with sharp, angry teeth to sink into her supple flesh. But she is no fish, there are too many thorns for him to navigate-Bedelia would kill him before he ever channeled the attempt to sink his great greedy jaws into her.  
  


“No, no,” the man chuckles, looking down at folded fingers before him, “I don’t eat many animal proteins, which is perhaps for the best, given the history of Hannibal’s lavish dinner parties. I don’t recall ever seeing someone as lovely as yourself in attendance.” 

 

“I find that…people do not often extend their invitations to their equals. You cannot impress the unimpressionable.” 

 

“Are you calling yourself an equal of Doctor Lecter, Doctor Du Maurier?”

  
The woman gives him a tight, almost smug smile in return for his comment, recomposing herself before giving back an answer. Cattiness is only in her nature when unprovoked-this man, Frederick Chilton, is doing his best to provoke her a response. But she is far too cool for this, far too whole.

 

“I presume you have-corralled me into this room so that you may get some kind of… _answers_  you feel entitled to. I am going to disappoint you in that I will not have them. May I suggest the FBI?”

 

The end of her words hang heavy with the bitter taste of snark like an over ripe berry waiting to be dropped from the vine. The woman doesn’t really watch for his facial features to fall or rise (he does, after all have half a prosthetic face) instead keeping her gaze at the edges of her facial features. The man is gruff but not necessarily an unattractive being, but the off putting of his personality is enough to slow time between them and rub her the wrong way.

 

Chilton stands now, and from the corner of the room his eye level is meeting her square on, focused solely on those eyes that don’t show anything. He has met only one other person with eyes as dead as hers before, and so much of that man is reflected here, in her clothes, her posture, her attitude-it would not surprise him if she claimed the title of the Ripper-it would be hard to convince himself otherwise. 

 

“Is it chilly in here, Doctor?” 

 

The words are meant to be malicious, a poor attempt to stab at her last stab for him. The FBI would never give him what he  _really_  wanted, her, coerced and sedated, words spilling from her lips like wax from burning candles, dripping into the salacious palms that eagerly want them. His obsession with _catching_  the man has gone so  _far_  as to consider the improbable attempt of coercion under entraptment. As if someone like  _him_  could wrap his fingers around the long neck of someone so god like as her. 

 

“You are the only one to survive Hannibal, Bedelia,” he reveals her first name, as if he has any right to spill it from his lips, “Not once but twice. You hold a value to him. He has let you go, released you to return home-we both know that you were not  _conveniently_ in the same realm of space as your former patient. Rumors can be quite  _nasty_.” 

 

“Rumors,  _Frederick_ ,” she turns quickly, keeping her eye on him as he attempts to pace her in the space, “Come from those who  _want_ something from a person. Willfully believing half truths-conceived variations of what  _could_  be a truth of a person.”

 

“Do you know why you are here today, Doctor Du Maurier?”

 

“You have..a _subpoena_.”

 

“Court mandated therapy,” he sing songs, watching her fail to turn her head to meet him as he vultures around her back. The high back of her Alexander Wang blazer meets the curl of sunshine waves, untrussed by movement, keeps his focus, an attempt to dominate the dominating woman. “It’s a curious thing, when the body goes through  _trauma…_ more curious when one doesn’t want to receive the  _help_  they often require. I’m  _here_ to lend you a helping hand, Doctor Du Maurier, a nudge in the right direction. After all, we don’t want anyone to think you are as capable as the  _Ripper_  do you?” 

 

His smug, thinly veiled distaste expression returns it’s full circle to come and rest right in front of her, hers level with the middle of the suit. She notes that he has lost a few pounds, the strain on the center button is gone. It takes her a moment to compose her features, dragging those shades of blue to meet his gaze. If looks could kill, the phrase often over used, was so relatively important in this moment. Normally stoic, emotionless eyes glaze over in a look that is reserved for only the rudest of the rude-those Bedelia would rather not associate herself with.

 

Here with Chilton, the song bird is caged, no longer whistling to the sounds that her heart makes, locked into the iron bar cage of a phony mandate of court, an excuse for the progressive man to study what he’s always wanted-Hannibal Lecter through the only survivor intended to live. Bedelia is the perfect specimen for containment.

 

But she will never comply willingly.


	2. Monuriki

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WOW! I was not expecting the kind of reception I received for the first chapter as I did, and I am completely thrilled that so many people are interested in this fic! Thank you guys. 
> 
> I want to say this chapter is very mild, and it only has a few bits of conversation and a lot of setting up for the next part of the story. If you're looking for Will Graham, he will appear in the next chapter! So stay tuned!

The long, sea cave hallway to the bedroom is dark and musty, having been locked up for so long. There are remainders of police activity here, a corner of tape still stuck to the grand art deco doors, a dusting of fingerprint power here, the wrappings removed from furniture and tossed carelessly, lost to the breezeless home in the dark. Like the great sand shores she laps at the footprints in the wounds of her house, washing away whatever she can to restore such a lavish space to its rightful decadence.

She assumes that the place was raided long after their disappearance, though to the FBI it must have been just moments. There are pictures like old film, reeling through their spools of agents coming to and fro through her place. They would have suspected her in a heartbeat, she had, after all, tried to warn them of the impending, whether they listened to her or not would be their deep weakness. It was. 

This evening she is hosting no guests, the kitchen is relatively unused and clean, the fridge is not filled to the brim and over flowing. Her fork sinks into the edges of her take out food, wrapped from her favorite French restaurant near her home. It is duck, and truly duck, the rest of assurance that Bedelia can eat without fear that humanity is what she is devouring. It was a welcome enjoyment, something rather soothing, a convenience she is allowed now. Her dinner is an undisturbed event, casual, welcoming, and when she heads to bed for the evening there is no wondering or worry, a dreamless sleep awaiting her-undisturbed by her welcome home.

It is not the same for him, whose sleep was filled with pain and waking. 

Having not adjusted yet to the way his face does not response, Chilton is still pained by the way his eye does not blink, drying out beneath the weight of sleep-his jaw hurts when he sleeps with the metal prosthetic tucked beneath his cheek. He has to stuff his wound with cotton to keep it from oozing, spilling out onto white pillow cases like the embarrassing bed wetting of a young boy unable to control his bladder. Chilton’s stomach aches beneath his scars, and no amount of pain pills or remedies will soothe that fact he has lost so much of his longest organ. 

It is no wonder that, in the morning, he is not in the lightest of moods, worn from a restless sleep, rocked back and forth on a boat in the rising sea, back and forth in discomfort and displeasure. He only barely has the right of mind to dress proper, eat well and pick himself up to head to work. There is far too much of a sleepless buzz in his mind to let himself work too hard, finding that he was only able to focus on very little, and near veered off the road on his way in. 

There aren’t many patients there that excite him anymore. The least of the most enthralling disappeared to Europe and had returned, leaving a great void in the walls of his hospital. Before that it was Gideon and all his riddles, though he was, despite traumatized, so viciously fascinated by everything Gideon seemed to represent. He had brought him so close to the taste of Hannibal-they had dined together, Hannibal had attacked him, ruined his home, there is only a natural itching to get revenge left in Frederick Chilton. 

And this blonde woman, currently striding through the door in powder blue Jimmy Choos was his ticket to that revenge. 

“Ah Doctor Du Maurier,” he begins, a little bit of a relieved and amused smile dancing around his lips, “I was curious to see if you would  _show_  up or not.”

“It is  _court_  mandated, Frederick.”

The snark does not go unescaped by the male counterpart, who comes around his desk leaning on his silver cane. One hand sweeps wide to offer her a seat near the window. 

“That is correct, Doctor,” he chimes in, waiting for her to move around him before taking his own seat, directly out of the indirect sun from the paper shades, “But just because you are mandated to see me does not mean you have to speak.”

“Like leading a horse to water,” she hums, crossing one leg over another as she leans back and into the upholstered seating.

“Yes,” he agrees before quickly changing the subject, “Tell me what was it like to live with Doctor Lecter?”

Her inhale was sharp, and clean. “Doctor Lecter frequently visited my home after my retirement. I would host his therapy sessions from there.”

“How many people have you eaten?”  
  
“-None.”  
  
“I find that  _very_  unlikely.”

Bedelia waits, patiently for him to accuse her of something else. His little actions do not go unnoticed, pushing her into some kind of corner, trying to get her to admit to something through a coerced tactics.

“If I remember correctly Doctor Chilton, you were once or  _twice_  put on trial for coercing a patient into what you want to  _hear_.”

Of course he does have a counter for that. A great big smile unfolds off his lips, and from that his fingers fold. “And you, Bedelia, have had a patient die on your hands. And I have read that you state it was  _self defense_.” 

“Hannibal Lecter can… _manipulate_  one into thinking something is  _not_  what it is.”

This is the first confession of him she offers up, and a rather well placed one-nothing Chilton does not already know from experience. The woman can tell by the way his head tilts that he is getting frustrated with her unhelpful blocks. 

“I have led you to water, Doctor Du Maurier, why do you not drink?”

“The well has been poisoned, no?”

The silence between them falls, and, in comfort, it grows longer and stronger with each movement, breath rising and falling, the silent waves crashing upon their flesh and bouncing back into the vast span of the ocean between them. 

He reminds her of Hannibal then, with that ever unwavering gaze focused upon her, almost unblinking, unmoving and empty. His suits, though different, still are tailored nicely, a step below the class of Hannibal Lecter, not custom but could pass as it-silver links, diamond pin, French shoes, not italian. He is almost there but not quite-imposterous behavior is the only thing he offers up.

And to him, she is Hannibal, with that cool collected face, a demeanor unreadable and never certain. Like a butterfly she could flutter off without much of a word to him and get away with it, whatever murderous cuts she leaves in her trail. Hannibal Lecter is an extension of her, and if Chilton wants to write what he knows of his Hannibal the Cannibal, then it will come from Bedelia Du Maurier, one way or another. 

“Tell me Doctor, you seem like a reasonable woman for your age-what is it like, to be with him? Is he the kind of man that takes much  _stimulation_?”

“Are _you_  the kind of man who requires  _stimulation_?”

“Well now, Bedelia, that is more first hand knowledge, isn’t it?” A large, shit eating grin covers his face, rippling dimples into the corners of his face. When in comes to the innuendos of the mind, Chilton can lap her, easily.

Bedelia, on the other hand, turns her face towards the light, debating her next move. It is clear that she is not getting out of this, and he is not going to let her get away without some kind of information. The revelation that her tale is important to him for some reason is what leads her to her next move, returning to look at him.

“What is it that you want from me, Doctor Chilton?”

Ah-he grins, noting that she is coming to comply with him at last. Chilton moves to stand, buttoning his jacket as he does so. From the desk he retrieves a manuscript, stacked with written notes and letters. 

“I want to publish a script,” he begins, letting her hold the papers he’s already written, “On Hannibal Lecter-Hannibal the Cannibal,” he grins, “And all those lives he touched. You understand, in our field we don’t often run across men like him-”

“And what do I get in return?” she interrupts, not entirely sure that her part is _necessary_. 

“If you participate  _willingly_ , I will sign off on therapy, Doctor Du Maurier,” he says, sitting back down across from her. “If not, then things may get  _drastic_.” 

Bedelia eyes him, drinking in his words. His attempt to manipulate her is familiar, and while it appears she has no way out of this, there will be some way to let her go-she had escaped Hannibal after, all, and Chilton, though similar, has too much pride to be  _exactly_  as Hannibal is. The thought gives her a slow, melodic smile. It only takes a moment longer to reveal her plans.

 “I will give you what you want. But nothing more.”

This time, Chilton smiles, like he has the upper hand, not knowing what she has thought up. The manuscript is handed back to him.

“You  _cooperation_  is  _deeply_  appreciated.”


	3. Svalbard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will is introduced. 
> 
> Bedelia turns the tides.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh wow oh gosh
> 
> Okay confession time; When I wrote this I wasn't expecting any kind of response, especially something like this. I was expecting one or two reads and then that's about it, the fic will get lost, i won't remember i would leave you all hanging, etc. But this has been really good for me, helping me get back into writing and writing well, so thank you! 
> 
> My second confession is that I have absolutely no direction for this fic. I have an end point but no way to get there, so if this feels a bit filler and plotless it probably is. I'm trying to get things set up for a climax but also move along at an okay pace.
> 
> Anyway! Let me know what you think, I'd love to hear what you have to say.

In the comfort of a small living space there is a voice. Muffled by the sound of the recording, the small female voice is solitary, a clear cut husk of a sound to echo through the cabin-like space. Though warmed by the heat of the fire, the rest of it is chilled by the way she speaks, so, callous-a definitive way of speaking that sends small shivers up and down the spine of someone who is only hearing it for the first time.

Luckily, for both participants listening, it is not the first, nor the last time hearing Doctor Bedelia Du Maurier speak on the subject of Hannibal Lecter.

Will Graham is seated neatly across from Doctor Chilton, fingers resting on the old plaid armchair in patience, eyes down cast at the American made leather shoes worn by the doctor. The tape plays for a bit longer and the voice goes on, casually and callously interrupted by the sharp mouth of Chilton himself. It’s then the recording clicks off, and Will is left with the buzzing silence and the haunting tone of such a dark creature in his ears.

“I suspected,” he begins after a long draw silence, “I suspected her. Though of course, she was not an easy catch, I imagine.How did you get her, Chilton?”

It was true, his words, as poignant and distant as they are-Bedelia was fleeting, caught only once before by the lure of Jack Crawford, though Will doubts now that is was anything as accident. He feels as if this feline woman is as much of a calculated killer as the man he’d followed to Europe for. Whatever she was telling him, whatever he had thought he had on her was what she wanted him to know.

It would be odd if Chilton did not already know this.

“Doctor Du Maurier,” he starts, looking at his fingers on his left hand, “Is akin to Hannibal. Whatever it is you have arranged with her, will not stay long.”

Frederick almost looks offended.

“I am not sticking my neck out to be chopped off, Mister Graham, she will not strike at me.”

“There was that confidence about Hannibal as well and now look at you-” he gestures to him, in mention of his face. 

“Do you think Doctor Du Maurier is capable of this kind of thing?” 

Will shakes his head, there is a brief moment of disbelief, as if the sexist comment slides behind the wrong ears. Perhaps he should not warn him of her prowess. 

“The second time I met Doctor Du Maurier, Jack Crawford had fished her out of thin air. She was pacing around the interrogation room in what appeared to be nervousness. It reveals itself now more as...a prowl. Do you want to know what the first thing she said to me was? That as a pyschatrist, one can manufacture evidence to feed to a patient. Her  _only_  patient was Hannibal Lecter.”

The words do not weigh lightly on Chilton’s mind. So much so that the way his face falls is not light at all, dropping quickly under the idea that perhaps he had miscalculated the woman. Perhaps he was distracted by her, by the way her face was stoic and greek-like, strong and feminine, perhaps it was by the way she spoke in riddles and catty tongues-Chilton was distracted by her, unable to  _study_  her properly because of his own faults. Will Graham noticed this almost instantly.

“He had us fooled,” he says, restating words that were said once when they were in the hospital together, “She manufactured the wiles she presents you with. You know too well that being distracted by the  _glamor_  of oneself can be dangerous. That’s how he was caught after all.”

“He was caught because, I believe,  _she_  had made the mistake of indulging his tastes.”

“She wanted him to be caught, just like you wanted her to come back, to fish her out of the wood work and write yourself a book.” 

“There is more than one person who knows Hannibal Lecter intimately,” he quickly dismisses, trying to ignore the way Will had so quickly turned down his offer.

“I’m curious,” Will says, leaning forward to rest his arms on his thighs, “What did you offer her in exchange for this?” 

“Simple-I offered her freedom. I offered her a chance to escape the law in exchange for information.”

“Caging an animal is certainly one way to get bit.”

“First a lady, now an animal-what will you call her next?” Chilton finds himself defending her with a bit of bite on his tongue. Mysteriously he is intrigued why Will Graham spends his time dehumanizing his latest patient, though not enough to comment on it. With the long break of silence between them, Frederick moves to stand, taking his recorder with him. 

“I came to see if you knew anything more about this woman while you were over in Europe on pursuit of Doctor Lecter, but it appears you know just as much as I.”

Will now, follows the good doctor in his movements, standing on his own as the man moves to make his leave by the door, gloved fingers resting on the handle. 

“I would tell you to be careful, Frederick,” he says, tone snappy, “But I don’t particularly care for you.”

Chilton mocks him with a bit of a frown, but nothing that is true emotion. 

“ _Pity._ ”

He makes his leave then, with no great flourish, taking back in the bitter snow that waits outside. It’s this kind of weather that makes his scars on his stomach hurt, bitter and cold, unwelcoming and contrasty along the sky. It’s the only time of year that the ground is a lighter color than the blue sky and it shows, cool weather to better match the man’s personality. Frosty, cold. 

 

* * *

 

Which is the case upon his next arrival at his office, the tall angry blonde comes sweeping in the like old man winter, bringing in the frost of a bitter night of sleeplessness. Bedelia has been restless in her home, up at the bump of every object-the scrapes of trees, the sounds of cars. Though not paranoid there is a bit of uneasiness to it all, and it has caused her an eventful and uneasy nightly rest.

Chilton will never be prepared for the kind of woman she can be when she is particularly disturbed by something. Cloaked in a black coat, the woman wears monochromatic color, in tones of white and black. Her shirt is a charcoal grey, St johns by the fit, a silken drape that wraps beneath the black skirt, cinched high on the waist above her belly button. Even her shoes were dark to reflect her mood. 

Clearly, whatever information Chilton wanted today, he would not be receiving. 

“I’ve brought you a gift,” is the first thing to tumble from the man’s lips, as he produces for her a small box with a certain array of pastries for her to look at. In truth they were pastries he would have liked himself, and in turn meant that Hannibal would enjoy them, too. 

The box slides over into her hands, and she opens it with a simple slide of her finger beneath the golden glimmering seal. The bakery is no surprise, it is her favorite of places in Baltimore, a small French shoppe that specializes in her favorite eggy pastries. It was also a favorite of her coconspirator, though it would be obvious that Chilton would know this already. 

And yes, it was, inside nestled in the corner were the flaky raspberry pastries that she has come to enjoy in the early morning hours when she was up. It reminded her of France, just briefly, of the way she would sit in the morning sunshine and enjoy it with a cappuccino, the rays warming her skin, inviting her in, refreshing the weary weight of stress from her features. Delicate fingers would pick apart the flakes and eat their succelance with ease, all the while making faces at those who passed with a friendly smile.

But here, tucked in this box inside this office, there is no friendly stranger or warm sunshine, only trickery and deception. What a game she has grown accustom to, this cat and mouse in this office space, a game of thorns, the longest and sharpest ones to stick while rose petals peel away to reveal truer intentions beneath. Chilton is a sharp knife, cutting away at the precious leaves that Bedelia blossoms forth. It is the cause of her sudden outburst. 

“Are you married Doctor Chilton?”

Taken back by the question, Frederick offers a rather odd kind of smile for him. 

“No, no I’m not.”

“Have you ever been married?”

“No...”

“Two people who,” she begins, “Reorganize their lives to fit around each other often struggle at first with the idea of adapting to the other persons needs...”

“Is this about Hannibal?” Chilton interrupts, though the look she gives him quiets him back down rather quickly. 

“When you begin a new client-patient relationship, it is akin to the beginning of marriage. There are moments when one must give and the other must take, and there are times when one must simply be on their own for a while, without questions asked. Therapy, though a resolve, may not  _resolve_  all that troubles a mind. I am afraid that our session today is over. I do not have the time nor patience to play games with you Doctor Chilton. Perhaps tomorrow.” 

With her hands still wrapped around the box he gave her, she heads for the door, knowing that her escape would be faster if she left him stunned. 

“Thank you for these,” she says slowly, before adding a bit of a wistful smile, “They are my favorite.” 

Before Chilton could close his mouth, Bedelia was gone, the door to his office shut, like she hadn’t even been there at all. 


End file.
